


Clinical and Not Exciting

by Rageycakes



Category: Cassandra Palmer Series - Karen Chance
Genre: Body Swap, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 14:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10788666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rageycakes/pseuds/Rageycakes
Summary: John Pritkin wakes up the morning after the body swap a little confused, a little distressed, and in desperate need of a shower.





	Clinical and Not Exciting

John woke slowly, almost reluctantly, from the odd dream that was already drifting from his memory. Something about an uncomfortably attractive tousle-haired blonde, no doubt.

He scowled on reflex, but the movement felt odd on his face this morning. His mind was still fuzzy, crawling unwillingly from the comfort of the pleasant dreams that his waking mind wouldn't allow him to entertain. His scowl deepened. He needed clarity now, not fantasy.

John stretched languidly, willing the stubborn sleep away, and then froze. 

No, this was all wrong. He was too small; his weight not depressing the mattress as it should, his limbs not reaching their usual space on the bed. He bolted up to sitting as everything from the previous day's disasters rushed back, and with it a nauseating sobriety. 

John brushed an errant blonde curl from his eyes--and wasn't _that_ disturbing--and heaved a sigh. Which sounded decidedly feminine. 

_Fuck._

His eyes drifted automatically to his--her--chest. The nipples peaked eagerly at his inspection and the breeze from the open window, and he hurriedly pulled the blanket back up to cover them. 

This was a nightmare. An actual, waking nightmare. He'd somehow ended up back in Hell, and this time in the ironic punishment department. John groaned aloud, and when it came out as a disturbingly appealing sigh he clapped his now-dainty hand over his mouth in horror.

_Right. This needs to be fixed. Cassie did this, she can undo it. Surely._ Even his internal voice sounded a bit...manic.

"You're a goddamn war mage. Get it together," John told himself through Cassie's gritted teeth, in Cassie's lyrical voice. 

He gathered his strength and looked down again. 

This time he managed to look past the obvious additions to his anatomy enough to notice that he'd gone to sleep with Cassie's body covered in filth from the night before. He scowled again at the memories, and then even deeper as he realized what he needed to do.

_Fuck._

This was certainly torture. He wondered suddenly if he'd ever wanted to _not_ want something more. He let out an hysterical giggle --a goddamn _giggle_ \--at the thought, before swinging his tiny, hairless legs over the side of his bed.

Five minutes later found him standing in the bathroom, water already blessedly fogging up the mirror, debating his options distastefully. John had no choice. He couldn't go around covered in dried, caked-on mud. Besides it being terribly uncomfortable, Cassie wouldn't have it. And it would be far easier to do this while she was still sleeping. It would be like ripping off a band-aid--over before she knew to flinch. He'd disrobe as blindly as possible, avoid the mirror, and scrub quickly. Clinically. With a cloth. No hand-to-skin contact. He'd keep his eyes closed, or on the ceiling. This didn't have to be lecherous or violating, and would absolutely _not_ be exciting. John nodded to himself confidently and began.

His brilliant plan hit a snag as soon as he lost the bra. 

John's traitorous eyes went down immediately, of their own volition, while he desperately tried to mentally sever the connection between them and his brain. 

Breasts. He had breasts. He had _Cassie's_ breasts.

Those things that had certainly been created to torment him. John's eyes weren't traitorous, they were absolutely predictable. They had simply followed the pattern they'd had almost since the moment he'd met her, and sought out the most delightfully distracting image in the room. 

John's brain wasn't far behind, however, and did as it always could be relied upon to do: wrenched those wandering eyes away and provided his face with a scowl to cover up the action. 

John closed his eyes and made quick work of the rest of Cassie's trashed clothes, and jumped under the spray of water face first. Washing. You're just washing. He reluctantly opened his eyes to locate the bar of soap and hand towel he'd brought and set to work. Eyes on the ceiling, he washed the left arm, then the right. Closed eyes, he scrubbed feet, then legs. He swiped the cloth over his--her--stomach. Detached. He worked up a lather on the bar of soap and ran his hands through those unruly curls that topped her head. He spent an unnecessarily long amount of time rinsing, knowing what he had still to wash and pondering it with a sick mix of anticipation and dread. John's heart ratcheted up several beats per minute and he took a few deep breaths to control it. 

This was clinical. Not a big deal. 

John worked the soap through the hand towel again and brought it to his neck. He scrubbed vigorously, almost painfully, and then down. John's hands slowed completely against his will, as if on an automatic track. Like Cassie's body knew to protect itself from any rough manhandling in that area. John rubbed gently this time, not wanting to get too familiar with this flesh he had no right to touch.

And then the corner of the towel slipped and a fingertip brushed against a nipple. 

It rose happily in response, and John felt a deep shudder that ran down his borrowed spine and pooled somewhere in his belly. 

Huh. So, she was sensitive. Responsive. How interesting.

His mind was happily drifting away on these thoughts when he remembered where he was. Who he was. Who _she_ was. 

He shook his head angrily and, in a rush, ran the cloth over his backside and between his legs so roughly that it nearly hurt. Now that was a distressing sensation...

He shook his head again, and nearly fell in a sprawl in his hurry to escape the steamy confines of the shower, of the bathroom, the house. This body. He wrapped himself up in a towel and frowned unconvincingly. 

Disturbing. That's all this was. Deeply, deeply disturbing. That adrenaline rushing through his tiny body was anger. The goosebumps on his arms were from the shock of the air outside the shower. The dopey grin in his reflection, revealing itself beneath the fog on the mirror, was fatigue. Right. Abruptly the eyes in the reflection widened as John considered another disturbing concept: Cassie was going to wake up soon. In his body. He grinned wider. Suddenly, the day didn't seem so bad after all.


End file.
